Disposing evidence
by coffin dancer
Summary: A woman is found murdered outside her New York home. It is the first in a series of brutal murders which won't stop until the killer is caught. Can the Detectives find him before it's too late? chapter 8 up
1. The Phone Call

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Goren or Eames or any of the other characters in Dick Wolf's best show, but I do own Carla Stanton.**

**Author note: This is my first fan fic, so forgive me if it's not up to scratch. Any help/advice you can give would be appreciated. Please R&R**

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**Chapter One: The phone call**

She looked out the window at the stormy sky; yellow clouds swirling across the sunset, rain slapping the glass. She sighed, took another sip from her third glass of scotch.

Why won't he ring? She thought in dismay.

It had been seven hours since her husband left for Washington. Usually he called her when he arrived at the airport, but so far she had heard nothing.

Chewing on her thumbnail, she thought back to this morning.

The alarm clock had chirped at 8:00am, leaving Ed with just enough time to get up, shower and get to the airport before his 9:30 flight.

He had kissed her as he got up, and then walked down the hall to the bathroom. Ed's suitcase had been packed for three days; he was heading to Washington for a conference which would change the way their company was headed, and he was looking forward to it.

Half and hour later she heard him yell his goodbyes from downstairs and the front door slam.

Now seven hours later, she still hadn't heard from him.

Just then the phone chirped next to her, startling her and she dropped her drink.

She caught it on the third ring.

"Hello? Ed?"

Static met her ears, followed by a deep voice. "Carla."

"Ed?" She asked, even though she knew it wasn't her husband.

"I've been watching you, Carla. I saw you this morning. What's in the headlines?"

She thought with a chill how this morning she had bought a _New York Times_ from the stand up the street. She pressed the receiver closer to her ear. "Who is this?"

"You know who this is. You failed me, Carla. It was simple, what I asked you to do. A favour for a favour, you remember."

Another chill down her spine. Suddenly she found her voice again. "Who is this? Leave me alone!"

"Your husband has a lovely tattoo, Carla. Does it turn you on?"

"What are you talking about...oh God, Ed! Leave him alone you bastard!"

"You can run, Carla, but you can't hide." The line went dead.

She sat down slowly, her breath coming in short, frightened gasps, her mind reeling.

She was numb. Did that monster have Ed?

She picked up the phone again, dialing in her husband's cell phone number.

One ring...two...three...a click. More static.

"Ed?" she said into the phone, her voice almost drowned out by the staticy clicking in the background. "Ed? Come on, damn it! Pick up the ----"

The line went dead again, and the light above her shut off.

Damn storm. It's freaking me out, she though with an irritated sigh.

Walking into the kitchen, she realized there was a blackout. She grabbed the torch and stumbled to the back door. The darkness had set in quickly due to the storm, even though it was only 3:30.

Walking out into the ice-cold rain, the wind whipped her body like a huge fan. She walked slowly around the house, where she saw the grey electrical box. She had to turn on the backup power.

She reached out for the switches, her hand pale with the cold.

Suddenly she felt hands around her throat. She cried out in shock but all that come was a gurgling noise. The pressure was unbelievable; even with her black belt in tae-kwon-do she couldn't find a way to pry off her attacker.

"It was simple, Carla," said the voice behind her, and Carla recognized it as the man from the phone call a minute ago. "You knew I wasn't joking. We had a deal. Well now you're gunna pay."

She gasped for air now, the world spinning beneath her feet. Stop. Stop! What did I do?

But she didn't make a sound and she hit the cold wet earth.

She lay on the ground, her long blonde hair wet, her brown eyes open in shock.

* * *

Detective Robert Goren stood above her, noting the peculiar way that Carla Stanton had fallen.

Her head was to one side, her arms stretched out and her left leg curled over her right.

Almost like she's dancing, thought Bobby.

"Carla Stanton, forty five years old." A policewoman said from behind him. "Husband is Ed Stanton, and a twenty one year-old son, Charlie."

Bobby cocked his head. "Eames? Take a look at this."

His blonde partner appeared by his side, looking quizzically at the body.

"Look at the wounds on her body," Bobby continued. "She was strangled -" he indicated the asphyxiation marks on the throat. "- then she was mutilated."

"But the perp left her face alone." Eames pointed out. "He didn't know her?"

Bobby bent down close to the body. There were six slashes across her stomach, more on her legs and arms. She was covered with blood, but the marks left by the killer's hands as he strangled her were clearly visible.

He rolled the girl onto her side, looking at her back. He stared with shock at the marks embedded in her flesh.

"Here's what I think happened," said Eames. "There was a blackout, so she came outside to flick on the solar power. The killer surprised her from behind, grabbing her throat and strangling her until she passed out."

Bobby wasn't listening. He was still staring at the woman's back. The word.

So the perp knew Carla, but he performed the killing like a sex-driven sadist.

"Any witnesses?" He asked.

"None. She was home alone. He husband went to Washington for business and her son lives in Westchester."

"Let me guess, the neighbours didn't see a thing." It was amazing the amnesia induced by flashing a gold shield at someone.

Bobby's phone chirped in his pocket, bringing him back from his thoughts.

"Goren."

"It's Deakins. There's been another murder on East 35th. Get over there and check it out."

* * *

TBC. What is written on the victims back? Who is the next one? Who made the phone call?


	2. The Mechanic

**Disclaimer: Once again, and rather unfortunately, Bobby and Alex are property of the lucky Dick Wolf. Not me.**

**Author note: I believe in fair rights for all, therefore any racism or racial remarks are in the spirit of the character, and within the story, and nothing else.**

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**Chapter two: The mechanic**

The second murder was much the same as the first. The African-American man was surprised from behind and strangled, then his body slashed apart. The difference was that this time they had a witness.

"Oh, my _God_! It's so awful, detectives!" The elderly woman sported huge glasses, which made her seem like some sort of eccentric insect. She clutched at her heart with spindly fingers which looked like they would break under the weight of all the gold rings on each finger.

Eames raised a cynical eyebrow at Goren, and asked the old lady, "What's your name, madam?"

"I am Agnes Katherine L'Ingrette." She sounded out each word of her name with importance.

"Do you want to tell us what happened, Ms L'Ingrette?" Eames asked.

Bobby walked over to the body. The reddish-purple asphyxiation marks on the man's neck appeared to be done with a belt.

He looked around the small brown room, but he couldn't see the belt anywhere.

The body had fallen in the doorway, and blood spatter on the wall to the left of the body indicated that the killer was standing there.

Bobby brought his face close to the wall. Then he saw something that made him give a tiny little smile.

A hair, caught in the rough sanding of the door skirting.

"Hey," he called to a crime scene tech. "Can you get this for me?"

The tech ran up and put the hair delicately in a glass tube.

Goren returned to the body.

The man was still in his work clothes; the label on his chest read 'Frederick'.

He picked up Frederick's right hand. He saw grease and a black substance that smelled like oil or possibly paint.

Mechanic? Bobby thought.

The bottoms of Frederick's shoes were covered in more black stuff, and a few grains of gravel. They were very worn.

Eames appeared in the doorway. She knew there was no point saying anything until Bobby had finished analyzing the body.

Goren gingerly pulled a wallet from the depths of Frederick's trouser pocket.

"Nothing stolen; all his credit cards are there. And about two hundred in cash," he remarked.

"So what do you think, Bobby. It's obvious it's not a robbery. Same M.O. as the Stanton woman. Do you think it's a serial killer?"

He held up a finger, "One more thing --" he rolled the victim over and checked his back. The same word. "— It's the same guy, Eames."

"What?" She asked in disbelief. She knew he was good but no one is _that_ good. "How can you possibly know that?"

"On his back. It says 'Guess Who'. It said the same thing on Carla Stanton's back." He fell silent in thought for a second. "He...doesn't want to be seen. He uses anonymity...to get what he wants."

Eames raised an eyebrow; she was impressed. "Anything else?"

Goren looked back at the body. "Has the CS team done an F-R test?"

F-R's were friction ridges, or fingerprints. Usually in a murder like this, the perp would have left a print or two where he was hiding. Unless...

"Nope, our guy was wearing cotton gloves." She replied in an exasperated tone.

* * *

Inconspicuous. Invisible.

Walking down the street, briefcase in hand, he blended in with everyone else going to work that Friday morning.

He walked past a news stand, and the clerk glanced at him. It was subtle, and it would have meant nothing. But he didn't _like_ that. He had to blend in. Indistinguishable. Undetectable.

Looking across the street he saw a small café. He crossed the street carefully, making sure that no one glanced at him with nothing more than disregard.

He sat down near the back of the café, pulled the menu over to him and pretended to read it.

He was spooked, bad.

After killing that nigger Frederick Kelly he had gone out by the front doors, tipped the doorman with a considerable amount and told him to keep his mouth shut.

He had then headed home to his house about ten minutes away, but it was taking him much longer than that for all the detours and backtracking he was doing.

But now he realized that he was being stupid. No one knew he was there, no one had seen him. Hell, they probably hadn't even found the Stanton woman yet, let alone started tracking him.

He allowed himself to relax, and ordered a coffee.

Sighing, he counted off people on his fingers. Stanton, Kelly...who was next?


	3. The Decoy

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bobby or Alex or Deakins yadda yadda yadda. Why does Dick Wolf get all the best things!?  
  
Author note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially Mox (tnargwoxow) for doing it three times, LOL. Sorry it took so long to write a new chap; my computer's gone to buggery, but it's managing to hold it together while I write this next installment! Here you go!**

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**Chapter three: The Decoy**

Bobby looked at the crime scene again, taking it all in, forming a theory in his mind.

"What did that old lady have to say?"

"Agnes? Oh, well she has about seven different cats and one of them escaped--" she gave a cynical laugh. She was used to witnesses at crime scenes and how hysterical they sometimes got, but some of the stories they told were beyond peculiar. "---and she was chasing it down the hall. It came into this apartment, as the door was ajar..."

"Oh great," interrupted a CS tech with an annoyed groan. "Cat hair in a scene like this!"

Goren could see his point. With a killer like this they needed every trace fiber they could get and cat hair didn't make anything easier.

Eames continued. "She saw a white male, in his late thirties or early forties. Couldn't see what colour hair or eyes coz the lights were off. She ran back to her apartment."

"Did the killer see her?"

"She thinks so. You don't think he'd come after her do you?"

"Well..." he thought for a second. "No. As far as we know, he's picking random people that mean something to him. He's got a list. He'll come back for Agnes but not now."

"Right, coz he doesn't like to be seen," Eames said, picking up the pieces. "He knows we'll all be here expecting him to come back."

Bobby opened his mouth to say something, but suddenly a thought formed in his mind. "Where is she now? The old lady?" He asked Eames. "She hasn't gone yet has she?"

"No, the Ambulance did a check on her and said she's fine. Why, what's up?"

"It's just...we need everything we can get if we're gunna get this guy."

"You're going to use Agnes as _bait_?" Eames narrowed her eyes slightly. "Goren..."

Alex Eames was all for Bobby's far-out theories and absurd hunches, because usually they worked themselves out and led them to the perp. But using a civilian as a lure for a serial killer...

"Well," He said rationally, "He's going to come back. He can't let anyone...escape."

"Goren, it's bad enough when I had to be Talbot's bait, _and I'm and officer_! Deakins won't let you do this." She turned away from him and walked to the door of the apartment.

"Oh come _on_! Eames, I'm getting a feel for this guy! I'm starting to know what he wants, what he needs. I promise that the old lady won't be in any danger."

She spun around and locked her burning gaze on his hazel eyes. "He's a _serial killer_ Bobby."

"He's a _criminal_, Eames. He's done something wrong and he's going to get caught." He held her gaze. "Eames, I give you my word."

She gave in. It wasn't that she agreed with him; frankly she thought his plans had been a little off the mark in the common sense department lately, but he was brilliant in a weird, eccentric sort of way, and she trusted him.

"Agnes's outside if you want to talk to her," she said quietly. Clearly he knew what he was doing.

Detective Goren only hoped that he was on the right trail.

* * *

In the RRV again, speeding west.

Bobby hung up the phone. "Right, Eames, they've taken the body to the ME's so we'll have to look at it when we get back to the Big Building."

Cop talk for One Police Plaza.

Right now Eames and Goren were going back to the first murder scene, Carla Stanton's house.

"Sure," Eames replied. "What do you reckon this guy's all about, Bobby? Revenge, love? Something along those lines?"

He thought for a while. "No, not exactly. I think this's something bigger. Something's set him off and now he has to finish what he started."

Eames grimaced a little bit at the off-hand tone that Bobby used to refer to the macabre killings of a psycho. "Do you think he knows the vics?"

"Yes. In a way." With that he fell silent and talked no more till they arrived at the scene.

* * *

The first thing he noticed was a disheveled man with black hair and puffy eyes trying to break through the CS-tape to get into the house.

"Please! Let me in! It's my house, my possessions. _Please_!! Oh God, Carla..."

"Ed Stanton?" Bobby asked, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "Do you mind if we ask you some questions?"

"Who did this to her?! Oh God."

"Mr Stanton," asked Eames, "Where were you at the time of the murder?"

"On – on a plane. I was going to Washington for business...if only I was here, this wouldn't have happened!"

"Mr Stanton I don't think whether you were here on not would've made any difference to this guy." Bobby added, "Except that now we'd have three victims instead of two."

"T – two? A...serial killer did this?"

"We think so, sir." Eames said. She continued with the questions. "You and Carla, were you married?"

"Yes, twenty years this August. We have a son, Charlie. He's twenty one."

"Can you think of anyone who would have a reason to do this to her?"

"No! No one we know would even _think_ like this...."

"Mr Stanton," Bobby interrupted. "...I noticed...scars...on your wife's wrists. She was suicidal?"

The look on the man's face told Bobby everything he wanted to know. "I....no. Well, yes, but she's been happy for a while now."

"What changed her mind?"

"What, about suicide? Common sense I guess..." He dropped his eyes to the floor.

Goren gave a smile; not a warm one. The one that didn't quite reach his eyes. The one where he knew you were lying.

"She just...changed her mind" he clicked his fingers. "Just like that. Depressed one day and jumping for joy the next, is that it?"

Ed Stanton shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "She...well, you see, she went on anti-depressants for a while. Prozac, Zoloft, Luvox, you name it. But they didn't work."

"So she needed something better." Eames offered.

"Something that allowed her to...escape...form her body." Deduced Bobby.

Finally the man looked up again, fixing his tear-filled eyes on Goren. "She got doped up on coke. I – I didn't like it but if it kept her here for a while longer why not!"

Goren sighed. With every new piece of information they got, the field just became wider and wider.

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Next chapter up soon!

The case is spliting the detectives apart, meanwhile the killer closes in on his next vicitm. Can the detectives figure it out in time?

Thankyou to Grant Moxom, who is kindov like my co-writer/editor person.


	4. The Questions

**Disclaimer: The characters of LO: CI belong to Dick Wolf and NBC and America, oh so far away.**

**Author note: Yes it's the holidays and I'm writing lots and my computer's better!! Woo hoo!! Thanks to everyone who reviewed!**

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**Chapter Four: The Questions**

No one would ever know he was here. Hands encased in latex gloves, he gripped the steering wheel of his silver Ford Falcon tightly. Peering through the foggy windscreen at the house across the street.

The man was waving goodbye to the woman standing forlornly on the porch.

Suddenly he noticed her eyes float over to his car. Her eyebrow lowered slightly.

But it was enough.

His heart began to beat painfully against his chest. His hands were clammy in the gloves. He forced down the panic.

That she knew; it was impossible.

That she even suspected was beyond reason.

Slowly he calmed down.

She didn't know him, but he knew her.

Oh yes, Leonie Roberts was like a sister, a best friend, a lover. He recalled her darkest fears and her secret habits. He knew her needs.

The man had gone now and she was closing the door, not a second thought about the car across the road.

He opened the door and stepped out into the street.

* * *

Pacing the scene, again.

It was the third time he had walked from the dining room in the Stanton house, through the kitchen and out the back door. To where the woman was murdered.

He could see why.

He could see how.

He knew when and where.

But what was puzzling him was the motive of this anonymous man.

Eames was talking to the neighbours, but everyone else, except one CS tech, was long gone.

He stood next to the white chalk outline of the woman's body.

What had she seen?

The cut electrical wires? No, they were underneath the box and she was standing straight up when the perp grabbed her. He could tell by the way she fell.

It was obvious to Goren the events that led to her death. The perp had cut the electrical lines, luring Carla outside. Then he grabbed her around the throat from behind, waited till she passed out then cut the marks into her back.

_Guess who._

A thought nagged at him; it had been since Carla's husband mentioned the drugs. He wanted to know why. Why was she so depressed? It was a long shot, but did Ed Stanton know who sold her the drugs?

All these questions, no answers.

He walked back to Eames.

"Anything?" He asked.

"Well, it's probably nothing, but one of the neighbours heard her yelling."

"Only her, not another person too?"

Eames consulted her watch book filled with tiny, neat handwriting. "No, only her. I was thinking, phone call?"

"Probably. I found something over there," he pointed to the side of the house. "Cut electrical wires. I think the perp used that as a lure to draw her outside."

"Well that doesn't help very much..."

"Yeah, I wasn't going to mention it but then you told me about the phone call...perhaps the perp was on the phone? He was going to attack her afterwards but...she got edgy, locked the door. He had to get to her some other way...." The famous Goren pause as something clicked in his brain.

"He _had_ to get to her..." Another pause. "Eames...we're looking for someone with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Specifically someone who has paranoia..."

"Of course! I'll make the call." She turned away as she rang H.Q.

"Yes, this is Detective Alex Eames...we need records of anyone diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder, specifically with paranoid tendencies, in the last..."

she looked at Goren, who whispered, "two years."

"....two years, please."

She rolled her eyes as undoubtedly she was put on hold.

Ten minutes later her eyes lit up again as the person came back on the line.

"Detective Eames?" Asked a young-sounding man. "That's a pretty big field you asked me for...nineteen million people in the U.S. alone have--"

"Can you give me the results please? We're a little short on time with a serial killer on the loose and all..." She snapped angrily. The people at NYPD inquiries were more social than helpful sometimes.

"Uh, sure miss. Here...Umm....there have been two million _adults_ diagnosed this year."

"Can you narrow it down to New York?"

"Okay, about one mill?"

Eames sighed. "And males?"

"Four thousand."

"Oh well at least that eliminates one and a half million! Thanks." She hung up with a snap.

"Well," Bobby said, ever optimistic. "The only thing we can do is start following up those drug leads."

* * *

"Mr Stanton!"

The man turned deftly, and for all that Bobby knew the man had already left; his eyes were impassive and cold, his mouth didn't return the detective's smile as he raced up to him.

"Yes?"

"Your wife...did she talk to you about the drugs?"

The man's stare was even colder when he replied, "Yes. She talked everything over with me."

Great, thought Bobby. He's on the defense. "So she told you who sold the coke to her?"

Ed Stanton seemed to be weighing up the answer. Finally he said, "No. She didn't know who it was. The guy gave her the drugs in the mail. They never met face-to-face."

Goren was surprised. How could a vulnerable woman in her mid-forties trust a man she never met to supply her with drugs? To him it seemed strange.

"He did something to gain her trust?" he asked.

"Listen detective; my wife's personal life was her own. I only knew what she told me and she didn't tell me anything about this guy, get it?" Stanton turned and walked heatedly towards his car.

* * *

Eames walked over to Goren as he stood staring after Ed Stanton.

"What was _that_ all about?" She asked incredulously.

"He really _doesn't_ know who sold her the drugs...but we know it's a guy. And I think it's our perp."

"Care to share, Bobby?"

"Well, think about it. Our perp doesn't like being seen. He likes anonymity, and he also likes power. The person who sold Carla the drugs never _met_ face to face."

Eames sighed. "Wow, this case just keeps getting easier!"

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**Next chapter up really soon! Sorry this one took so long. Please review!!**


	5. The Answers

**Disclaimer: I don't own Goren, Eames, Deakins or the ME...I can't' remember her names so maybe I'll make her up and then I'll own her!! And I _do _own Ed and Carla Stanton, Frederick Kelly, and....hmm who's next?**

**A/n: Thanks for reviewing; keep it up! I need all the help I can get!!**

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**Chapter five: The Answers**

She looked through the lens at the tiny particles spinning like a kaleidoscope of colours. This was what she liked best; forensics. A lonely woman of twenty-six years, Catherine Turner found comfort in her work as an M.E. for the NYPD. It was those little facts that only she knew – that the mysterious fiber came from the trunk of a '96 Ford, that the tiny drop of blood was from a woman's arm as she fell to the ground – that made her feel special. Her boyfriend used to refer to her as he Keeper of the Keys, and Cate supposed she was.

She looked up at the anxious detectives. "Well, I can tell you that it's from a piece of clothing, grey in colour and probably cotton or rayon."

She walked to her filing cabinet and extracted a case file. She scanned it. "And Carla Stanton wasn't found wearing this type of material. So it probably came from your perp. Considering that the same material was found at the second crime scene, I'd say that he's wearing gloves of the sort."

Bobby looked intently at the results of the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer test, which separates and detects chemical mixtures, and shows the components.

The main component was benzene, making the possible sources of it petrol, paint or...

"Pharmaceuticals! Frederick wasn't a _mechanic_ he worked in a chemist. He must have been the supplier of most of the legit drugs to the perp." He gave a self-disgusted sigh, angry that he hadn't realized this sooner. "We've got to get to that store. Thanks, Cate. We'll be back soon."

* * *

He watched her squirm.

Leonie Roberts, he reflected. Went to school at Columbia, but then she was just little Leonie Biretto. She married James Roberts when she was twenty eight. And ever since then she had lived here, with him. He went out night after night to 'work'...at the penthouse of the Union Square hotel. She was depressed, and he loved it. It gave him power, it gave him control.

She was at his mercy.

Now as his gloved hands clamped tight around her thin neck, a smile crawled its way across his face.

Three down...

Two to go.

* * *

Twenty seven patrol officers scouring every chemist along Fourth Avenue from Brooklyn to New York City.

Twelve officers calling every post-office in that area, searching for ones under the names of both Frederick Kelly and Carla Stanton, in the hope that it would narrow down the search.

And after contacting the FBI, they were squeezing every last detail about drug heists out of their Confidential Informants.

Alex Eames thought it couldn't fail.

Detective Goren on the other hand was much more realistic. The possibility that a perp such as this, who hated to be known and would kill to remain unrecognized, would limit himself to one area.

So he called Ed Stanton again.

"Mr Stanton? It's Detective Robert Goren of the NYPD here. Listen, we really need your help in catching this guy." He played the helpful citizen card, praying to God that Ed Stanton was a Good Samaritan. This would be the last chance he got to ask for Stanton's help, after that... with no leads and no witnesses, they would have to go back to square one.

"Yes..." Ed said cautiously, "I understand that Detective but I can't help you. I don't _know_ anything."

"Well, Ed, I think you know more than you're letting on. Just tell me about your wife. Anything you think of. It could be relevant and it could not, but that's for me to decide."

Bobby could hear his hesitation and he thought once again of the prospect of going back to square one...

_At least that eliminates one and a half million..._

"I...I don't know Detective."

But Goren could think of nothing more to say that would convince Stanton to help him, so he left the pause hanging in the air to do that battling for him, letting his conscience do the work.

A sigh.

"Why..." Goren cleared his throat. "Why did she choose that guy? She didn't know him. Never met him. She didn't know what kind of person he was, whether the drugs were safe." As far as safe drugs go, thought Goren.

"He was cheap. The cheapest in the business, she said." Ed sighed again, and then continued quickly, "She'd been asking around, finding out about deals and security...stuff like that. Then she came home one night, about three months after her first...well after she got her first delivery. She said that someone found out about her and the drugs."

Bobby was shocked. Not some much about someone finding her out but that someone had figured out the perp's undoubtedly complex sequence of drug delivery.

Stanton continued. "So...she begged the guy not to tell anyone. Carla has...had...a big reputation to keep. If a secret like that got out she'd be destroyed." There was a pause while Stanton considered what to say next. "He got her to do things for him. Favors."

Bobby new all too well what this could entail. But Stanton added defensively, "Nothing sexual though. In the respect Carla said he was a very decent guy."

"We're going to need you to come down here and talk to one of our sketch artists, okay Mr Stanton?" Bobby said.

"Okay, I can be there in half an hour?"

Goren told him this was fine and they hung up. A second later the phone rang again.

"Detective Goren, NYP---"

"Goren, it's Eames. Where the hell were you? There's been another one. Lexington Avenue near East Fifty-sixth. I'll meet you there." The line went dead.

* * *

**Please review! Im sorry this chapter took so long to complete. I was studying for my exams, but now that I have lots of free time I'll update much more frequently.   
Next chapter: They're narrowing the noose around the killer. But as the fatalities rise and the minutes tick down, the killer reveals his final, horrific trick.**


	6. The Next Victim

**Disclaimer: I don't own Goren or Eames, or Deakins. They belong to Dick Wolf and NBC.**

**A/n: I hope Vincent D'Onofrio, aka Bobby Goren, gets better really soon. He passed out multiple times last week, and hopefully the cause of it was just the exhaustion of the excellent work he does. Thanks to all who reviewed.

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**Chapter six: TheNext Victim**

How, how? He wondered.

How had she seen him?

He felt the burning sensation of a million eyes boring into his skull. The cold whisper of breath on his neck.

A bead of sweat trickled down his nose, ending in a salty pool on his top lip.

It's okay.

He thought about the plan he made so diligently at his desk, night after night. A life plan, a day plan. Black books shrouding his desk, yellow post-it notes sticking out of the crisp pages like tongues.

The black books, he thought. Like dictators to my life.

But he _liked_ it that way. That way nothing could go wrong.

When you had a plan, you followed the plan.

But when you did something wrong, something you hadn't _planned_ on doing...things became very bad.

And this, he reflected, he hadn't planned. The old lady and her _cats_.

Oh, no, they weren't part of his plan at all.

She knew who he was, what he looked like...it was...it was...

What was it? Oh yes, like his therapist said. _Inconvenient_.

That's all they are. Little things.

But how do I stop them?

Well, you find out what it is that's bothering you, and then you get rid of it.

Get rid of it?

Yeah, get it out of your system. Get it out of your life forever.

_The old lady and her cats_...

* * *

Leonie Roberts had put up a fight. 

But nothing could save her from the fate that the killer had planned out for her.

Same M.O., Goren reflected. How many more bodies would he have to see like this?

Three slashes across the abdomen, blue-purple asphyxiation marks like an eccentric necklace across her throat. And the words inscribed into her back.

_Guess who..._

And, now that he looked for it, the small puncture mark in her thigh.

"Eames," he croaked, "There's definitely a drug connection."

She nodded and turned back to the policeman she was talking to.

The mood was different, he assessed. It reminded him of a case five years ago.

A drive-by shooter had killed three people dining at an out-door restaurant in Queens. One woman, and her two children, Lucy and Tommy.

The mood surrounding that case – the arduous hours of searching the crime scene, of cleaning up the blood that ran down the gutters, of hearing people's frightened gasps, of realising that the world we live in is vile and shameful – was one of sorrow.

Not the usual hurried buzz of searching for clues so we can catch the perp, we just gotta catch him, guys, gotta _get_ him...

Not the revered silence of mourners, feeling guilty about disturbing the last place someone ever saw...

This case felt like a huge rock had landed in his heart and each breath came as a sigh. They just didn't have enough on this guy so they could get him. One fibre, Goren prayed, one hair, one bullet shaped drop of blood that would be his. _Please_.

And so he slowly began to gather the information from the scene.

Half an hour later he returned to the corpse of Leonie Roberts, disappointed and wholly disheartened. Usually he felt the surge of thoughts through his brain and one of them would stick, one would be the hunch that brought the killer down.

But all he could think of was that case...

_The blood running down the gutters_...

He mentally shook himself and forced himself to concentrate. And he realised that he had been staring at a spot on Leonie's clothing that was speckled with dust.

Red dust.

Brick.

"Eames!" He shouted, "Eames, come here, quick, and bring a CS officer!"

Eames, the officer, and the rest of the crime scene crew came running into the room half of them holding their service weapons uncertainty in their latex-encased hands.

"Look what I found!" said Bobby, encouraged once again that maybe they'd catch this bad guy. "Brick dust. This house isn't brick. You know what that means?"

Eames looked up slowly, as if she didn't dare believe it. "The perp...his safe house."

* * *

The lab was filled with anxious and excited faces. 

Cate Turner felt like she was the first person walking on the moon; everyone watching her slow, precise movents but she was oblivious, lost in the scientific task that would answer a thousand questions.

_The keeper of the keys_...

After running a brush over Leonie Roberts' clothes, she had collected various trinkets of trace material. However the only pieces that were useable – they hadn't come from Leonie, her husband, or the house itself – were the brick dust, and a tiny little brown fibre.

Now she felt the pounding of blood is her ears as though she herself was in the take-down team storming the perp's house...but before that happened they had to find it, and she held the only lead they had.

She loaded the tiny fragments of brick dust into several test tubes, each containing a different solution for determining a hundred different things about the subject. She put them into the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer, the device for separating materials and identifying their chemical components. It gave a whir and a sharp _beep_ as it started up, and in less than five minutes the screen showed the results.

"It's old," she said to her watchers, most particularly Detective Goren who sat in a chair by the corner, reading the case file. He glanced up at her, and Cate could see the excitement flare in his eyes. "And it's expensive – cheap brick was very porous because they mixed in filler. I'd guess this place is either institutional or built by someone wealthy. At least a hundred years old. Maybe older."

She walked back to the examination trays where she had scraped the trace material from Roberts' clothing. She held the brown fibre victoriously in the tweezers.

"What's that?" Said a voice by her side. It seemed the excitement of the chase had brought Bobby Goren over to be part of it. "A bit of a jacket? Suede?" He asked, making the same deduction she had.

Placing the fibre in the micro-spectrophotometer, a large microscope which measured the light radiation coming from a subject to determine its type, she said to him "I think so. But if it is, it won't help us find him. It's winter – think about how many jackets the stores have sold this _week_."

His reply was to sigh and gesture to the photometer, meaning 'we'll find out'.

She examined the screen which showed a huge blow-up of the fibre. "It's leather," she said with surprise. "Not buffed for clothing." Performing numerous comparisons to data bases around the country in seconds, she smiled. "Car seats. They're extremely rare nowadays. You should be able to get him."

She handed Bobby the DMV phone number, whispering "God speed, Detective, God speed."

* * *

**Please review!   
Next couple of chapters: They're narrowing the noose around the killer. But as the fatalities rise and the minutes tick down, the killer reveals his final, horrific trick.**

**- Tash**


	7. The Noose

**Disclaimer: Once again, and rather unfortunately, Bobby and Alex are property of the lucky Dick Wolf. Not me.**

**Author note:Has anyoneheard rumours about Bobby being kicked out of the show? News reports are all over it! I hope it isnt true. Can anyone bring some truth to the matter?  
Thanks to all those who reviewed - I write the story for you!**

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**Chapter seven: The Noose**

"Silver, did you say? And how many?"

Goren scribbled the words _2 silv._ amongst various other shorthanded words on the yellowing pad of paper before him. His right hand clutched the receiver to his ear. The gruff voice of the man from the Department of Motor Vehicles told him that, in New York State, seventeen vehicles had been made or upgraded with leather seats in the past 2 years. When Bobby had said that the leather was particularly worn and brown in colour, that left him with seven cars. New York City, Queens and White Plains narrowed it down to four cars. One was white, one was blue.

And two were silver.

"And where do each of the owners live, please?"

Ten minutes later Bobby slammed down the receiver, a tiny smile on his face. He told Deakins and Eames animatedly what he had found.

"There're four cars with leather seats manufactured two years ago or older."

"Why only two ye---" Bobby held up a finger, gesturing for Eames to wait until he had finished.

"One of them – a blue Nissan – is in Queens. 113th Street. Now, we can rule that out because the buildings along that street are new, and Cate said the buildings would be a hundred years plus." He consulted his notes, "The second car is white, it's a Hyundai and last week it was in a car crash off the interstate. It came from White Plains."

"Why can we eliminate that one?" asked the Captain. "Wouldn't it be practical for the perp to get rid of the car? A crash would seem like a regular incident…our unsub could just dispose of it."

Goren nodded, "I thought of that. But the perp's not finished with his hit-list yet, so he's going to need a vehicle to take him around. He wouldn't switch cars--" he said quickly, answering Deakins question before the captain opened his mouth. "—because he's insecure. He knows there's a risk that someone will find him because of the car but he thinks the risk of someone finding the car if he _ditches_ it is much greater. So" he checked his hastily scribbled notes again. "That leaves two cars. Both are silver, both are in New York City. _But _there's one small difference."

Eames raised her eyebrows at the drama Bobby was putting into his performance. The look said _hurry up_.

"One is in Manhattan; the other is in Alphabet City."

It was clear to everyone in the room that they had found the perp. Manhattan was an urbanized city, with a skyline like a jagged piece of glass for all the buildings poking up towards the sky. Alphabet city, on the other hand, was a run-down decrepit area. When Eames was a beat cop she used to patrol that area. Now the unpleasant memory of the stench of urine and garbage came back to her.

Suddenly the office became enveloped in a flurry of activity.

"Which street!?" yelled Deakins as he ripped the phone from its cradle. "Yes, get me SAC Leonard of the FBI."

There was a pause while the call was connected, and Goren handed him the address scrawled on a piece of paper.

3 Szold Pl, New York. E 10th st and Ave D. Silver Ford Falcon.

* * *

Alphabet City lies to the east of First Ave., south of 14th street, and north of Houston street. Here, the avenues give up on numbers and adopt letters. The area is generally safe during the day, but at after nightfall the area east of Avenue B becomes a dark, brooding place, where young men walk the streets in silence sizing up anyone they pass for a fight, and the women with their dark eyes and short skirts prowl the dank and dusty nightclubs. 

It was in one of these nightclubs that he now sat, the dense, smoky air compensating for his woolen coat resting on his lap. He kept his head down, and he didn't order any drinks. He was here for reconnaissance, to watch the sad and beautiful creatures of the night. He liked the feeling of satisfaction he got from being here. The feeling that he was _better_ then these people.

The sense of power over them…that they were at his mercy….

Suddenly he picked up his jacket and fled into the night, stopping to catch his breath on a bench in Thompson Square, not far from his house.

It had been a long time since he'd been around people….people like _that_.

He wasn't sure he could do it again.

After, he thought, after I've cleaned up my….my mess, I'll come back here. These people look like fun...

But their eyes…seeing watching knowing probing assuming….

Sure…they're fun. For a while. Until they…until they ask questions.

I'll come back and…clean up my mess.

* * *

ADA Carver stood in the center of the room, his black face as red with anger as it could ever be. 

"You don't have adequate _evidence_, Detective" he raged. His voice was oddly calm, though the fury in his eyes told otherwise. "You can't form an FBI-NYPD takedown team, storm someone's house and arrest them on the basis of brick and a leather seat!" Part of this was directed at Deakins, who stared at the floor ashamedly.

Goren, however, was never one to back down on something he believed was right. "It doesn't sound like much, councilor, but it's circumstantial evidence which ties the person to the scene!"

The take-down team was waiting for the green-light to invade number 3 Szold Place, the red brick house from the late 1800's. Eames had gone to the tiny by-pass avenue, and after questioning several residents she found that a silver Ford had indeed been seen in the cracked driveway, and had left not half an hour ago.

Bobby was now attired in his tactical gear; a thick Kevlar bullet-proof vest over his white shirt, and covered by his NYPD windbreaker. His Smittie was loaded and several speed-load cartridges rested in his pocket. But now he wondered if the ADA would let the operation go ahead at all.

He could see that Carver wasn't going to budge an inch. "Okay, listen. Give me an hour. I can prove to you that this is the house and this _is_ the guy."

"Oh yeah, Detective? And how do you plan to do that?"

"I just need some evidence, that's all. And if I'm right, it shouldn't be too hard to get. Tell the spec-ops team to get ready!" He called as he ran out the door.

* * *

Scouring the scene, walking the grid. Left to right, right to left, up, back and sideways. He was looking for the one thing which would convince Carver. 

A drop of blood.

Which wasn't that hard to find in a murder scene, but Goren wasn't looking for Carla Stanton's blood.

He reasoned that the woman's house had been the perp's first murder, judging by the hesitation marks on the body. Of course, the body was now six-feet under, but Bobby was an observant man and he had noticed the marks on his first examination of the body. He gripped the case file in his right hand as his left overturned leaves and rocks in the Stanton's backyard.

He thanked God that it hadn't rained. There were many contaminants of a crime scene, and the most devastating and unpredictable one was the weather.

Usually, in the perp's first murder crime, the way they stab their victim or the amount of pressure they use causes the weapon to cut the perp as well.

The Forensics team had examined every inch of the area with their unwavering concentration and hawks-eyes, but for once Goren prayed that they had missed just one tiny brown bloodspot.

But his prayers went unanswered.

* * *

Agnes L'Ingrette sat in the stiff metal chair in the lobby of One Police Plaza. 

Normally a calm strong woman, at 10 o'clock last night she had found her heart stuttering with fear at the shadows dancing on her bedroom walls. So she had made up her mind to come and see what those lovely detectives could do for her. She knew that the person she had seen in the nice black man's apartment wasn't just going to go away with a slap on the wrist and a few harsh words.

"Excuse me?" she said timidly to the tough-looking security guard by the elevator door. He glanced at her with an apathetic nod. "When will I be allowed up there? I have been waiting since six this morning. It's very important." She added desperately as the security guard turned back to the elevator.

Instead she looked at the prim young lady behind a metal desk by the entranceway.

"Hello, dear," the girl looked up. She smiled at the woman. "Detective Goren said that if I needed anything I should just come here. He said I'd be allowed straight up."

"Oh, Bobby said that? Well let me check…" she flipped hurriedly through her desk-diary. "You're Agnes L'Ingrette?"

The aging woman nodded.

"Oh, well, I'm sorry to keep you waiting ma'am, but Bobby left a note saying you're not to be here. He says you'd be safer at home, and there'll be a babysitting team there at 7.30 in the morning. Have a nice day."

With her arthritic fingers twitching in anger and her head struggling to ignore the fear of the man…the man with eyes full of hatred, like gaping black holes…she walked briskly out to the street and hailed a taxi.

So, thought the shadow of a man in the ally up the street, the lady with the cats…

She won't put up much of a fight.


	8. The Takedown

**Disclaimer: The characters of the fabulous LO: CI belong to Dick Wolf and the NBC, not me.**

**Authors note: Can you believe it? They are going to kick Vincent out of the show!! A man named Chris Roth is taking his place. Show your support of our fave Bobby Goren by registering at **

**The site's being a bastard at the moment so i can't get section-breaks. Sorry for the confusion.**

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**Chapter eight: The Takedown**

Please, he prayed. Please work.

When he was six, Robert Goren had been in the church choir. His mother was extremely religious, and she would have it no other way. But then when he was seven, his mother was admitted to Carmel Hill Institution. Scared and confused, young Bobby had left the church to be with his mother, and though as the years went by he realized that nothing would make his mommy 'normal' again, his faith in God that she would not leave her three children was rewarded with the cherished time they spent together.

Now he thanked the heavens again, not for the first time that day, as he watched the latent print-powder slowly reveal the whorls and arches of a perfect fingerprint.

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Goren waltzed confidently into Carver's office, shoving the Polaroid of the fingerprint plus matching AFIS results under his nose.

"James Burkhart. 3 Szold place," he said as Carver read the same thing on the piece of paper.

Carver narrowed his eyes. "Where did you get this?"

"I went back to the Stanton's house. For that killing, the perp – Burkhart," he corrected himself, "didn't wear gloves. We could have got the print much earlier off the victim's skin but Latents left it too long."

It was possible to gain prints from skin, up to two and a half hours after contact. After that however the prints become mingled with the victims own perspiration and they are lost. Goren continued, "Anyway, I was searching their backyard, and I had a thought."

The door opened and Eames walked in, returning from her stake-out at the perp's hide out. "Look's like I'm not too late for the Great Goren's Mysterious Hunch," she said jokingly.

Bobby glanced at her to take a seat, and he continued. "He cut the electrical wires right? To disconnect the power and lead Carla Stanton outside?"

Eames nodded. Carver looked amused at the double-team act that was going on between the two detectives.

"The wires are hidden in a metal box, and to cut them the perp had to open the box – using his hands because the door opens upwards and to the side, so he couldn't've used a stick or anything." Goren smiled. "And I got an A-Grade print off it. Burkhart didn't wear gloves for his first murder."

The ADA sighed as he picked up the phone. "I'll get you your warrants, detective; you get me the takedown team."

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Running, running.

No, no, no! Get out get out get out get out out out!

The eyes, the feeling…of burning on his neck…the thoughts of what people…were…thinking

He couldn't stand it.

Get away away!

You know who did this, don't you? Said the voices, a coy, laughing voice in his head.

It was _her_, the old lady. The one with the cats. She told them who you are, what you look like…

She knows what you were doing.

Oh, he thought. Of course! Her.

Her, her, her…

The one who made everything so _inconvenient_…

And he found himself at her window, the harsh light of the midday sun shinning in his eyes and reflecting off the mottled glass in the rotten wood frame.

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Black vans sped through the side streets.

This was a more circuitous route to the perp's location but Special Agent in Charge Cooper knew what he was doing; he had been the head of the NYPD's SWAT team and Special Operations division for over ten years. Cooper, in the back of the lead van, tightened the Velcro strap on his body armor. They were less than ten minutes away.

As they sped along he looked at the failing apartments, the trash filled lots. He also looked at his men and women, the members of his elite team, renowned throughout One Police Plaza. Beside him sat Robert Goren, an excellent detective but a bit on the shy side in social confrontations. Cooper often reflected on how many police officers felt safer in a tactical situation – Glocks or Smitties at their sides whilst the perp could be coming up stealthily behind them – but utterly detested social meetings of any kind.

He felt the tension that had been mounting since they left Police Plaza suddenly turn into nervous energy amongst his solemn soldiers as the driver called out, "Show time."

The van turned down Szold place. Most of the streets they had passed in Alphabet city had been filled with sweating residents, clutching cool beer bottles and cigarettes, hoping for a breath or two of cool air.

But this one was dark, empty.

The vans cruised to a silent halt, and two dozen agents spilled from the doors, carrying their H&Ks equipped with muzzle lights and laser sights.

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The old woman tottered around her apartment, banging cupboard doors and slamming pots on the stove.

Clearly she didn't think lightly of the police endangering her life.

And rightly so, he thought.

He felt the hot prickle of eyes burning their gaze into the back of his neck. He turned to see a face disappear behind the curtain of a neighbouring house.

Shit, oh shit…breath coming fast, heart pounding painfully in his chest.

He couldn't be caught now! He was so close to his goal…

He could wait no longer.

Lifting up the grimy old window, he stepped into the kitchen to the music of the old woman's haunting screams.

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Goren slowly got out of the car and adjusted his body armor, uncomfortable and hot.

He and SAC Cooper had put together a thirty-man assault on Burkhart's residence in twenty minutes. Two teams of nine plus Search and Surveillance; three snipers, with their big Remingtons strapped, locked and loaded lay prone on the rooftops.

"Surveillance and Command," heard Bobby through his radio, "We've got infrared on the basement. Somebody's moving down there. Can't tell what; just got motion and heat."

"Alright," called Cooper. "This's one sick mother-fucker in there, people. We don't get him, he's gunna keep killing till we do. So I want all teams through but our guy might not be in there, so try as hard as possible to leave a clean scene for CS and the Detectives, okay people? Alright. Let's go! Deploy, deploy, deploy!"

The first team took out the front door with a battering ram and the second team, Bobby's team, used the slightly more civilized approach of broking the back-door window and unlocking the deadbolt.

They scoured the house, but eventually the calls began to radio in that the house was clear and secure.

It was only then that Goren allowed his mind to relax and take in the scene around him.

Books. Millions upon millions of books. Three cabinets were filled with them in this room alone. Goren stood in awe at the collection he faced; a reader and great lover of books, he had never some across anyone who loved books as much as he. Now it seems he had a match.

He forced himself to concentrate again. He was in the study, off the long and dirty hallway. A brown wooden desk stood in the corner and beside it a chair. He noted the scuff marks underneath it, and the way the cushion on the seat had been worn away and flattened so that it sloped down towards the desk.

"He reads," he muttered. Seeing the pens that littered the desk he added, "And he writes too."

The pens were all chewed, nib to top. Often people did this when they were anxious or thinking hard about something.

The he noticed that one shelf of the bookcase closest to the desk was entirely devoted to black, A3-size books.

"Oh, my God," Eames breathed as she came into the room. "Was is this, the Library?"

Bobby gave a small smile but his attention was on the black books. "Diaries, Eames. He keeps a diary."

Pulling one out of the cabinet, he flipped it open and read, ' "I can't believe I let this happen. It just went out of my control. She found out. What else could I do?" It's dated November 13th. The week before Carla Stanton was killed." He turned more of the pages. "It details the murder, his reasons…but it's like a defense. He says he had to, to protect himself." He got to the end of the book, pulled out the next one.

"This one started yesterday. He…oh. God. Eames, we've got to get over there! Agnes! He's going to kill her."

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**Please review! Next chap up soon. Only two chapters left, but how will it end?**


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